


Quiet Fire

by 401



Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Domestic Violence, F/M, Family, Muteness, Other, Period Typical Ableism, Period-Typical Sexism, Pre-War, selective mutism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2019-03-06 23:35:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13421997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/401/pseuds/401
Summary: I have headcanoned Bucky as mute or selectively mute for a long time.





	Quiet Fire

The fights between his mother and his father were as much a part of Bucky’s childhood as church and Christmas cookies. Raised voices, breaking glass, the shouts of protest from his mother that would make him soak his pillow with tears. The next day, his Ma would be in the kitchen with a few new bruises and a little less fire in her eyes. She never sook help from anyone, not the church, not the small number of friends she was allowed to have, not anyone that “might’ve had it worse than her.” Everybody could see it, nobody did a damn thing.

It was 1931 and Bucky’s 15th birthday was still fresh in his mind. He had spent most of his night on the back porch of their little house, watching the breeze play tag with the gnarled, rheumatic branches of the old sycamore that took up half of their small yard. He had begged his parents not to cut it down when he was at an age when climbing the ugly great thing seemed fun.  He could hear the Jones’ wireless, sending the tinny muffled tone of its music from their house to his. The air smelt like wood smoke. It was a nice night, if a little humid, but not enough to leave him uncomfortable so he rested with it and enjoyed some respite from the stifling heat that Brooklyn had been having.

His contentment, short lived and fleeting, was broken by the sound of keys in the door, anxiety bearing down on him like a locomotive, forcing his mind to race whether it wanted to take a ride or not.

His father entered the hallway. The bastard was swerving miserably, holding onto the banister at the start of the stairs to the first floor. Bucky found himself cursing the fact that his Daddy had been found unfit for service on account of his busted knee and bad liver. There were men out there laying down everything to protect the innocent, and he was here, doing nothing but laying his hands on his wife. Bucky stepped into the house, and empty wave just about managed and being ignored as he scrambled to his usual spot at the top of the stairs, just out of sight and reserved for nights like this. Passing the man, Bucky could smell it on him; overindulgence in Jim Beam and Jack.

“What burns blue, takes away your blues,” He had once said to him, before forcing him to take a shot of scotch after he had lost a fight with some of the neighbourhood kids. Bucky had glanced at his mother apologetically before swallowing the fiery stuff, knowing that neither of them dared protest.

He knew his father would be in as much of a fighting mood as ever tonight, and it made Bucky instinctively hold his breath. Before he could even release the breath, he heard his voice, dripping with his earlier alcoholic exploits.

“Winfred!” He shouted gruffly.

“Winifred, get here and welcome me into my home like a proper wife.”

Bucky swallowed down bile as his mother obliged silently, kissing him on the lips and removing his coat. There were medals on it, from the first war. Bucky did not need to hear any testimony to assume that he probably did not deserve a single one. Hell, they might have even been stolen. That was the kind of ‘man’ his father was.

“How was your night, dear,” His mother whispered.

The tone in her voice made tears start to roll down Bucky’s cheeks. There was nothing left. He had worn her down like a rock in the tide, and now she had no edges left, nothing to catch on the violence she was subjected to.

“Now don’t you ask me stupid shit like that as if it concerns you, Winnie,” he slurred, “None’ve your damn business, anyway.”  


Bucky hoped their interaction would end there, that his father would pass out on the arm chair, his mother would come into his room and sit with him for a while and he would himself fall asleep knowing that the same inebriation that made his father such a brute would also keep him unconscious and his mother safe. So, he made his way up the stairs, getting into bed with his slacks still on, and pulling his already unbuttoned shirt over his head.

Sure enough, there was a knock on his door.

“My baby,” Winifred whispered, perching herself on the edge of his bed and carding a soft hand through his hair, letting it rest on his cheek.

Bucky smiled and nodded, resting his face into the contact. Being mute meant that things like this, the unspoken things, were what he held onto in his mind. They were the things he could show, the things he could give back. If he could not tell his Ma that he loved her, he could show her. The rare occasions when the words could leave his mouth, he surprised himself too much to make them the ones that mattered, so moments like this had become a ritual between them.

“It keeps you safe,” Winifred whispers, “Your gift.”

Bucky frowned and cocked his head.

“You can’t speak, but your eyes. I think they scare your father. Notice how he rarely hurts you any?”

A pause, and then he nodded again.

He would have liked to think that the way his father seemed to let him be was out of love, but he doubted it. Bucky was not wanted, much less after the years after his birth passed with more and more missed milestones. He had not wanted _any_ child, much less one that was dumb and mute. He reminded him of that often.

“He can see your fire, baby,” She smiled, “You’re a good boy. You make Mama proud.”  


Bucky sniffed as more tears rolled down his face. If he had fire, he could not feel it. He felt nothing more than cold and numb in this moment, and not at all brave. He reached up and brushed a thumb over the small bruise on his mother’s cheek. She looked at him in such a way that said so much, even though he could not define a single word of it. She kissed his hand and placed it down on the bed next to him, giving it a quick squeeze before standing up, sighing and straightening her dress.

“Maybe I could use a little of your fire, hey?” She chuckled, before leaving the room, blowing him a kiss and closing the door.

 

It would take Bucky many years to get that night out of his head, and a few more to find the words to explain it to anyone.

 


End file.
